One in a Million

This is one beautiful state, my passenger said, gazing through the window at a passing meadow. To the east, the Killington mountain peaks still glistened with snow against the blue sky. I have a buddy back in Baltimore who used to come up here to ski when he was a kid.

We were passing through Pittsford en route to Brookside Ranch, a residential psychiatric facility in Cuttingsville, about 15 miles southeast of Rutland. I had learned that my fare was an administrator for a mental health organization in Washington, D.C. Hed come to Vermont to evaluate Brookside as a possible treatment option for one of his clients.

Aaron looked about 30, with dark brown skin and keen brown eyes. He was dressed in a cream-colored turtleneck and light suede jacket. Though casual, his entire look was polished. Is it just me, or do out-of-staters seem to dress better than Vermonters? Perhaps my perception is skewed, because the visitors I tend to transport are tourists and professional people.

One detail contasted sharply with Aarons young-professional presentation: his hair. He had thick dreadlocks tumbling over his shoulders that reached the center of his back. It wasnt the funky, frizzy affair you might see on a hippie-type; his was clearly a well-groomed coif. Still, it wasnt the look youd expect on a young African-American man rising in his field.

We reached the Brookside Ranch a mile up a dirt road off Route 103. Aaron  who had done the research prior to taking the trip  told me the place has been in operation as a mental health facility for 70 years. The campus looked to have expanded building by building over time.

An extensive sugaring operation was also in full swing  the surrounding woods were filled with tapped and tin-bucketed maple trees. A number of people were walking about the property; I couldnt tell who were staff and who were clients. I dont know what I expected: Nurse Ratched and hysterical people in strait jackets?

We pulled into a parking area adjacent to a building marked Office, and Aaron got out to investigate. The parking spots overlooked a fast-flowing stream, which was swollen and bubbling with winter snowmelt. I lowered my window, eased the seat back and closed my eyes to listen to the watery symphony. An hour later, I awoke to Aaron tapping on the windshield.

Sorry to wake you, he said with a laugh. You looked like you were into some sweet dreaming.

No problem, man, I said, shaking off my grogginess. I actually feel kind of invigorated. Are you all set for the ride back to the airport? Did you accomplish what you needed to?

Thats yes and yes, he said. Im quite impressed with this place. Its really a working farm  of sorts, anyway  and they integrate that into the therapy experience.

Great, I said, then lets roll.

Hey, is there a place where we could pick up some maple syrup? I had some for the first time with waffles this morning at the hotel in Burlington, and I think Im addicted. Ill probably also get some for gifts.

Yeah, I know just the place. Its where I get my syrup, too.

About an hour later, we reached Dakin Farm in Ferrisburgh. I love this place and stop here every chance I get. The delectable samples they put out  preserves, cheese, ham, crackers  beckon me whenever Im cruising down that road.

The store was crowded with tourists, and the old proprietor himself, Sam Cutting, was scurrying to and fro, cleaning up, replenishing the samples. I stood to the side, downing smoked cheddar cheese cubes and watching as Aaron made his way through the store. He looked like a kid in Disney World, checking out everything from the chutneys to the Vermont T-shirts, all the while talking with the staff and fellow shoppers. Something about his presence inspired people to light up and spontaneously engage with him.

Eventually, I coaxed Aaron out of the store. He had a bag filled with maple syrup, maple powder and cream. Another Vermont convert, I thought, as we got underway again.

I kept glancing at the guys hair as we continued north to the airport. There was something magnificent, almost regal, about it.

Aaron, if you dont mind my asking, how long did it take you to get the dreadlocks looking that good?

Why, thanks, man, he replied. They do tend to shake up some folks. My stepdad, for one, has no idea what its about. He smiled. To answer your question, I can tell you exactly: I began growing them in 1995, right after the Million Man March.

Oh, yeah, I remember that  when all those black men assembled in Washington. Did you attend?

I did, and it changed my life. It was such an awesomely positive experience. When I got back to Baltimore, I started expressing myself differently, or maybe I should say more fully. The dreadlocks, I guess, were a physical sign of that change.

Thats deep, I said.

That it is, he agreed. That it is.

I dropped Aaron at Burlington International, and later that night I found myself thinking about him. What impressed me was the guys authenticity, his willingness to truly be himself.

I used to think that kind of self-expression was risky because  heavens!  some people might not like you. But then a friend put it in perspective: No matter how you cut it, a third of the people in the world are bound to dislike you, a third will be indifferent, and a third will truly dig you. Why bother, then, to cater to the first two-thirds? The world currently has 6 billion inhabitants; that leaves two billion whod be happy to meet any one of us.

About The Author

Bio:
Jernigan Pontiac is a Burlington cab driver whose biweekly "Hackie" column has been appearing in Seven Days since 2000. He has published two book-length collections, Hackie: Cab Driving and Life, and Hackie 2: Perfect Autumn.

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